


Of Purity and Forgiveness

by gammadolphin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demon Dean Winchester, Family, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Post Season 9, it's not too bad for a death fic i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gammadolphin/pseuds/gammadolphin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam discovers what his brother has become, he knows that there is really only one thing for him to do. He just hopes that everyone can deal with the cost as he finishes what he should have a year ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know that I have no business starting another story when I am already working on 2.5 other long ones, but inspiration strikes when it strikes, and this one would not leave me alone. It's a bit different from my usual style, but I like the way it turned out. Enjoy!

Sam’s gut lurches slightly as he meets those horrific black eyes, so wrong when they are staring out of that familiar face. It strengthens his resolve though, and he slips the first needle into the neck of the demon that had once been his brother. He presses the plunger down and watches his blood disappear into Dean’s body. The demon just smirks at him arrogantly.

“You know this won’t work, right?” he hisses, and Sam wishes that he’d had the strength to gag him when he was chaining him up. He had been too stunned and horrified and lost though.

_The feelings that assaulted Sam when he went to check on Dean’s body after the failed summoning were indescribable. A wild, irrational hope surged through him when he saw his brother standing up, back turned to the doorway as he surveyed his surroundings. Sam said his name, and though the word had come out little louder than a whisper, Dean heard it. He turned, and the sight of his black eyes shattered every tentative hope of Sam’s, and hit him like a battering ram to the stomach. He said Dean’s name again, but it came out as a gasp of horror._

“You’re wrong,” Sam tells the demon, withdrawing the needle once the syringe is empty. _You have to be._

He walks over to sit in the other chair that he has brought into the dungeon, and he can feel Dean’s inky eyes on him, though he refuses to meet them.

“Even if you could cure something like me, which you can’t,” the demon persists, and Sam closes his eyes as if that could shut out the sound of a monster talking to him with his brother’s voice. “We both know you won’t go through with it. It’s still the third trial, and it’ll still kill you. You said yourself that you wouldn’t die for me, and I doubt that’s changed now that you don’t even think I’m me anymore.”

Sam keeps his eyes shut, but he cannot stop the grimace at Dean’s words. As if he has not been regretting that conversation enough already, as if the knowledge that his brother had faced Metatron believing that Sam would not be bothered by his death was not tearing at his heart as it was. He does not need his words thrown back at him by this twisted parody of his brother.

_Dean blinked his eyes back to normal and gave Sam a smile, and for a few stupidly naïve moments, Sam let himself believe that the situation was not too bad. Dean was alive again, and they could work through this new symptom of Cain’s mark. But then he noticed the cruelty in the smile, and when Dean spoke, his hopes were dashed anew._

_“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Useless,” the demon snarled, and he sounded so unlike Dean that Sam could no longer doubt that the brother he loved had been eclipsed by what he had become. “What’s the matter, Sammy? Don’t like the new eyes?”_

_His eyes flashed back to black, and he laughed coldly when Sam took an involuntary step away._

_“What happened to you, Dean?” Sam asked. His hand strayed to the pocket that held Ruby’s knife, but something told him that it would not work on whatever Dean had been twisted into._

_“The damnedest thing,” Dean replied, advancing slowly on Sam the way a predator would on its stunned prey. “I was set free.”_

_“Free from what?” Sam whispered as he fought against his instincts and held his ground._

_“Humanity.”_

Dean continues to shoot barbs his way, but Sam just works to tune him out. He is unsuccessful, but at least he does not give the demon the satisfaction of a verbal response. The first hour seems to drag on interminably, but finally the alarm on Sam’s watch beeps, and he prepares the second syringe of blood.

Dean meets his eyes as he approaches, and they are back to green. Sam has to look away from them as he inserts the needle again; it is too painful to look into Dean’s eyes and not see his brother staring back at him.

“Why even bother with this charade?” the demon demands. “Is it so that you can give yourself points for pretending to try? Do you really think that’ll make you feel better when you fail?”

Sam goes back to ignoring him, but he turns his chair away from Dean this time so that the demon will not see the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

_“Do you have any idea how liberating this feels?” Dean asked as he took another step toward Sam. Every light bulb in his room shattered at once, and he laughed when Sam flinched._

_“Dean, just…just calm down,” Sam said, trying to tamp down his panic and get a handle on the situation._

_Faster than he could believe, Dean had him pinned against the wall by his throat._

_“Oh, but I am calm, Sammy,” the demon murmured as Sam fought to break his iron grip. “And I’m going to very calmly choke the stubborn life out of you so that you can no longer be a colossal pain in my ass.”_

_“Dean, please,” Sam choked, unable to comprehend the thought that his brother wanted to kill him. “It’s me.”_

_Dean laughed incredulously._

_“And what exactly is that supposed to mean to me?” he inquired. “I have no idea why I used to care so much about you, but you’re nothing to me now but an annoyance. Like a flea. And guess what, Sammy? I’m the exterminator.”_

_The only thing that saved Sam was the fact that he had been prepared for Crowley. Giving up on reaching Dean or freeing his airway, he pulled the special demon handcuffs from his pockets and snapped them around Dean’s wrists. The demon released him in surprise, but he recovered quickly and lunged at Sam. The hunter was prepared this time though, and he held his own. It was a difficult fight, but eventually Sam subdued the demon._

“Honestly, I don’t know why you’re even trying to do this,” Dean tells Sam as the third syringe of blood is emptied into his neck. “You were practically a demon once, you know how this feels. Why are you trying to take that away from me?”

Sam has been doing his best to ignore the demon, but that question draws a short, incredulous laugh from him.

“Seriously?” he asks. “I started the apocalypse, Dean.”

“Yeah, so? Didn’t you enjoy the rush, Sam, the power?”

Sam meets Dean’s eyes, and he can see the genuine curiosity there, along with the hatred and contempt. He sighs, but knows that his brother will remember this conversation when he is cured, and he deserves Sam’s answer.

“Yeah, I did,” he admits quietly, crossing his arms as he stares down at the demon. “The way I felt when I was running on demon blood, it was incredible. Everything was clearer and I was stronger. I felt like I could do anything, and I liked the sense of control.”

“Then why give it up?” Dean asks.

“Because it cost me you,” Sam tells him. “And it cost a lot of innocent people their lives. I only ever wanted to rid the world of evil, and when I realized that it was making _me_ evil, I couldn’t just keep going.”

Dean snorts his contempt, and Sam sighs again.

“Weak,” the demon spits.

“Not weak,” Sam corrects. “Human.”

“Humanity _is_ weakness, Sammy,” Dean says, and the nickname sounds so wrong now. “You’re just too blind to see it.”

“But you’ve got 20/20 vision?” Sam surmises wearily.

“Yep.”

“Good for you,” Sam mumbles as he returns to his chair to wait out the hour.

God, he is so tired.

_Sam’s brain was still struggling to catch up as he hauled a semi-conscious Dean down to the dungeon. He did not understand how this had happened, how Dean could have died and come back so quickly as a demon. Then he remembered seeing the first blade on Dean’s bed. He had left it behind, so someone must have brought it to Dean, and Sam had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who that someone was._

_Oh well. He would kill Crowley later. For now, he had to figure out what to do about Dean. For lack of any better ideas, Sam chained his brother down in the chair that he had prepared for Crowley, and pulled out his phone to call Cas. He had spoken to the angel on the drive back to the bunker, but neither of them had been all that coherent. Sam did deduce that Cas had beat Metatron though. He wished that he could feel something about that news, but there was no room in his heart for anything but grief at that point._

_Cas didn’t pick up this time, and Sam’s list of people to call for help was officially exhausted. He stared down at Dean, who was fully awake now and practically snarling at him._

_As Sam met those depthless black eyes, he knew there was really only one thing for him to do. It was something that he should have done a year ago, and it was a thousand times more important now._

Sam stumbles slightly as he rises to administer the fourth dose of blood, and he wonders if he imagines the flash of concern in Dean’s eyes. He decides that he must have, because as he walks over to the demon on legs that are suddenly unsteady, all he is met with is more mockery and contempt.

“You really think that crap is gonna work on me?” the demon asks scornfully as Sam inserts the needle. “Your blood is so tainted, I’m surprised you don’t bleed black. It doesn’t have a chance of purifying a soul as dark as mine.”

Sam cannot help but fear that he is right, but he knows that he has no other choice but to try.

_Sam had found the small chapel just a few months after he and Dean moved into the Men of Letters’ bunker. He had just been poking around, exploring the maze of hallways and rooms that seemed to go on forever, when he opened a door to find five rows of dusty pews facing a simple altar. It must have been in the small part of the bunker that was above ground, because there was a stained glass window set in one wall that filled the space with multicolored light._

_Though it had been years since Sam had prayed with any kind of faith that God cared about him, he had found himself cleaning up the small chapel anyway, dusting off the cedar pews and polishing the large gold cross that guarded the altar before attacking the stained glass with Windex and paper towels. He did not tell Dean about this unexpected sanctuary, knowing that his brother had no use for faith. But though Sam knew that the only heavenly being watching out for him was a busted angel with a screwy head, he would still go to the chapel sometimes and stretch out on one of the pews, breathing in the peace of the space._

_It was where Sam had gone when the pain from the trials had gotten too overwhelming, where he had sought refuge when facing Dean’s betrayal and Kevin’s death. And it was where he went after he had strapped the demon masquerading as his brother to a chair in the middle of a devil’s trap. Dean had shouted abuse at Sam as he retreated, and suddenly his little sanctuary did not feel quite so peaceful. But he had not gone there to escape._

_He laid the first blade on the altar like some kind of very poor sacrifice, and sank into the first pew. He bowed his head, wondering where to even start with this._

_“I guess it’s no surprise what I’ll be confessing to this time,” he said eventually, and his words seemed so quiet, even in the small space._

_Despite the fact that it was a church, Sam was not used to praying in there. He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing his palms into his eyes as if he could shut out his problems. But the pain was inside him, and it did not let up. He blew out a heavy breath, and turned his eyes to the cross that he still kept shining._

_“I really screwed up this time, huh?” he said softly. “His only crime was not being able to stand losing me, and I pushed him away. I did this to him, by making him feel like all he had left was revenge.”_

_Sam continued to pour out the rest of the hurt and bitterness that had been building over the past several months. He went over all of the what-ifs and the should-have-dones. He recalled that night on the bridge, when Dean had called himself poison and Sam had just let him go. Dean had been wrong that night. He was not the poison, but he had come back poisoned, and by then it had been too late._

_Tears were rolling down Sam’s face by the end of his confession. As soon as he was finished though, he wiped them away and rose, determined not to fail his brother this one last time._

Sam suffers through another hour of waiting, and Dean’s taunts have stopped by the end of it. He cannot even take the time to enjoy the fact that his efforts seem to be working, because he can feel his health deteriorating. His muscles ache as if he has run a marathon, his throat feels like it has been scrubbed with steel wool, and his ears are starting to ring. Dean had been right about the trials; all of the damage that Gadreel and Cas had healed is coming back, and it is hitting him all at once.

Still, he stubbornly gives Dean his fifth injection, and this time the demon says nothing at all. They wait in silence for another hour to pass, and Sam turns his chair back to face Dean. If he is going to go through with this, he wants to be able to see the man that he is saving.

Sam is stunned by how quickly his condition worsens. By the time his watch beeps again, his sleeve is covered with blood that he coughed up and his body is barely cooperating with him. The sixth syringe falls out of his trembling hands as he carries it over to Dean. It shatters, spilling dark blood over the floor of the dungeon. Sam stares at the glistening puddle for a moment, and then closes his eyes. He shakes his head, but then goes back to the table at the side of the room and picks up a fresh syringe, sliding it into his arm.

Dean’s green eyes meet his again as he comes back with the new syringe, and Sam is stunned to see that they are glistening with unshed tears.

“Don’t do this, Sam,” he says quietly, and Sam knows that it is not out of cruelty or self-preservation this time. “Don’t do this to yourself for me.”

Sam just gives him a tired smile as he slips the needle into Dean’s neck, relieved by the evidence that his brother is coming back to him.

“If the situation was reversed, and I was the one damned for eternity,” he says softly. “You would do the same for me.”

He watches as the words register, and then Dean just closes his eyes. Sam leaves him to his thoughts and returns to his chair, as it is no longer an option to remain standing.

He contemplates the fact that his life will be over in two hours. He finds that he does not mind all that much. He was ready to die after his last botched attempt at the third trial, and the months of loss and heartache have not done much to endear him to life. And if there was ever a good way for him to go, saving his brother and hopefully sealing hell is it.

He does regret what his death will do to Dean though. He knows that once his brother’s humanity is fully restored, Dean will be in agony over Sam’s loss. Sam just hopes that he will channel that pain into something useful, like helping Cas repair the damage that Metatron has wrought.

He can barely stand when it is time for the seventh injection, so he uses his chair like a cane, dragging it with him to Dean’s side and collapsing into it once he is close enough.

“Sammy, please,” Dean says, his desperation visibly growing as he takes stock of his brother’s condition. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

“I know,” Sam tells him gently as he finds a clear patch of skin to insert the needle. “You’re worth it.”

“No, I’m not,” Dean insists. “Sam, you know I can’t let you die for me. What about my perfect ending?”

Sam smiles sadly as he remembers Deans words from so long ago, at the very beginning of the trials. He thinks about that long and happy life that his brother wanted for him, and he knows that he could have had it. He also knows that he wouldn’t have enjoyed a moment of it if Dean’s soul had been the cost.

“You get to live it for yourself,” Sam tells his brother as he pockets the now empty syringe. “You get to live in a world free of demons, free of hell’s curse. I’ve done so much damage, Dean, so damn much. Let me do this, let me save the world that I’ve been fighting for my whole life. Let me save you.”

They are both crying by the time he stops talking. Dean’s watery eyes hold a storm of different emotions, but Sam knows somehow that his brother will not try to stop him this time. He leans over to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. He can feel tears dripping into his hair, but he does not mind. They are the proof that he is finally fixing everything that he let fall apart.

“Why does it always have to be us, Sammy?” Dean asks as Sam’s last hour of life ticks by. “Why are we always the ones who have to sacrifice everything?”

Sam sighs, but does not move. Shivers are racking his body, and Dean is an excellent source of both warmth and comfort.

“Maybe it’s because we’re the only ones who can handle it,” he answers eventually, his voice slurred.

“I cannot handle this,” Dean tells him, and now his body is shaking too.

“Yes you can,” Sam says, and with a sudden surge of energy, he manages to sit up, meeting his brother’s gaze. “We were always gonna die young, Dean, we both knew that. I know you wanted me to outlive you, but since when has life worked out the way you want? My number has been up for years, and I’m okay with it. What I wasn’t okay with was the idea that I might not get to spend eternity with you. We already know that we share a heaven, and there was no way that I was letting you miss out on that.”

“Heaven is closed for business, Sam,” Dean chokes. “You’re just gonna get stuck, like Kevin.”

“Then make that your mission, Dean,” Sam says, gripping his brother’s arm. “Cas took care of Metatron, did I tell you that? He won, and he can start fixing things. He’s gonna need your help, so give it to him. I’m closing hell; opening heaven can be your job.”

Silence falls between them again and Sam rests against Dean once more as his energy flags. He cherishes the sound of his brother’s heartbeat, strong and loud in his ear, even though his breathing is slightly uneven. Dean flinches when the watch alarm beeps at last, but Sam just sighs in resignation and sits up.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean says as he watches Sam pull the syringe from his pocket and press it to his arm. “For all of it.”

“I’m not,” Sam tells him, meeting his pained gaze. “I never got to tell you, but I’m proud of us too. We’re closing hell, big brother, you and me together. We did good, Dean, and you get to do more good after this.”

The syringe is full now, and Sam pulls it from his arm. He uses his free hand to unlock the shackles on Dean’s wrists, knowing that he will not try to stop Sam now, no matter how much he might want to.

Sam’s hand shakes, so Dean takes it and guides it up to his neck, helping his brother push the plunger that sends the last dose of blood coursing into his system. They both sigh, and Sam gratefully tosses the used syringe away. His arms have started glowing without him noticing, and he takes comfort in the knowledge that he really is still completing the trials.

He slices into his palm with Ruby’s knife, and though he sees Dean wince, his brother still does not try to stop him, and for that he is grateful. He carefully says the words to the spell that he memorized a year ago, the one that would fully restore Dean’s humanity and lock the gates of hell forever. He meets Dean’s eyes, and though there is endless pain and grief in them, they shine with pride and humanity, and they warm Sam’s trembling body. As he finishes the final words of the spell, he knows that there is one more thing left to say.

“I love you, Dean,” he tells his brother.

Dean manages to smile and let out a sob at the same time, and Sam finds himself wrapped in a tight hug. He closes his eyes, relishing this final embrace.

“I love you too, Sammy,” Dean whispers in his ear. “I’ll see you upstairs, okay?”

“Better not be too soon,” Sam warns him as he forces himself to pull away. “I want a couple decades of peace and quiet before you get there.”

Dean laughs, and Sam knows that this is the last image he wants to have of his brother. He places his bleeding hand over Dean’s smiling lips, and it is all over in a blinding flash.


	2. Chapter 2

The smile dies instantly on Dean’s lips as his brother’s blood hits them. The touch burns straight to his soul, which feels like it is about to explode, blinding him from the inside as it sheds the last traces of demonic taint. The evil in his system stands no chance against the purity and selflessness of his brother’s sacrifice, and Dean feels his humanity return in earnest.

His sight kicks in just in time for him to see his brother collapse, and he catches Sam before he hits the ground. He eases them down, letting Sam’s head rest against his chest. He feels his brother’s neck for a pulse that he knows isn’t there, and sobs rack his body when his fingers are met with stillness. He wipes away the trail of blood from Sam’s mouth that is the only outward evidence that something is wrong. Then he just pulls his brother close and buries his face in the younger man’s shoulder to stifle the noise that no one else is around to hear anyway.

He has been here before, holding Sam’s lifeless body, but that does not make it any less painful now. And he knows that it is final this time, knows about the arrangement that Sam had with Death. He knows that there will be no deal or spell or angel to reverse this. And it hurts. Good God, does it hurt.

“This should’ve been me,” he whispers. “This always should’ve been me.”

He does not know how things went so horribly wrong. He does know when they hit rock bottom though.

_He was surrounded by oppressive darkness, lost and confused and hurting. He did not know what had happened, where he was, or even who he was, and that scared him. Then he heard a voice speaking to him, drawing him back towards something. As he began to be aware of his body, his fingers tightened on whatever they were holding._

The first blade, _he thought._ My blade.

_The blade grounded him, filled him with confidence and power and purpose. He knew who he was now. He was a killer, but more than that, he was the best killer._

_When the voice that had been talking to him told him to open his eyes, he obeyed. He thought he recognized the man standing over him, and knew somehow that he should feel hatred towards him, but there was nothing but curiosity._

_“Oh, Dean,” the man said, smiling. “You are a specimen, aren’t you?”_

_So his name was Dean. That sounded right, though he did not really care._

_Dean sat up and looked down at the blade that he had been holding to his chest. He ran his fingers tenderly over the weathered bone, and he felt a smile stretch across his lips. He was already imagining all the things he could do with that blade, and he could not wait to get started._

_“You’re not even the least bit bothered by this, are you?” the other man asked, sounding amused._

_Dean looked at him, confused. Why should he be bothered?_

_Something nudged at the back of his mind. He poked at the errant thought, and suddenly all of his memories came tumbling loose. He frowned as he sorted through them, remembering his life as a hunter and everything that had brought him here. All he felt was disgust at how weak he had been in his life, how blinded, and though he knew that his reaction should have unsettled him, he could not bring himself to care._

_“I feel…better,” he said to the demon he now knew was Crowley. “I feel perfect.”_

_Crowley smiled, but before he could say anything, they both heard the sound of approaching footsteps._

_“I think I’ll leave you to deal with Moose,” Crowley said. “Try not to make too much of a mess. Bloodstains are so difficult to get out of carpets.”_

_Before Dean could reply, the king of hell had vanished. Dean glanced around, but he froze as he heard a familiar voice gasp his name. Dean turned to see Sam standing in the doorway, his mouth hanging open and his face white._

_The demon was surprised by the force of the reaction that hit him when he laid eyes on the man he had called his brother. He still had the memories of the overpowering love that he’d had for Sam, but the emotion had been replaced by hatred of equal vehemence._

Dean winces at the memory of that powerful loathing. Even though he lived through it, he still does not understand how he ever could have felt that way about Sam. Although he supposes that’s what being a demon means; all of the good and pure emotions are twisted into evil ones. He is just glad that he was able to tell his brother how he really felt.

After a while, when other sensations begin to trickle in through the grief, Dean realizes just how different he feels. He had not really had time to adjust to being a demon, but he had been dealing with the effects of the mark of Cain for months. He realizes that he no longer feels the alarming bloodlust, the battle rage that has been stirring his blood since he first held the blade. He looks down at his arm, and sees that Sam has given him another gift.

The mark of Cain is gone, leaving smooth, unblemished skin in its wake. Yesterday, the thought of losing the mark would have been abhorrent, like losing one of his hands, but now that it is gone, Dean knows that it is a blessing. He feels truly human again for the first time since shaking hands with Cain, and it feels better than he could have imagined.

“Thank you, Sammy,” he tells his brother.

He is filled with a sudden determination to make himself worthy of heaven once he gets it reopened. Sam wiped Dean’s slate clean, and he will do whatever it takes to keep it that way. He will see his brother again, even if he has to give up alcohol and volunteer in a homeless shelter every day for the rest of his life.

Unable to bear the thought of moving on from this moment, Dean looses track of how much time is passing. It could have been minutes or hours, but eventually he hears footsteps, so he raises his head dully to see Castiel appear in the doorway to the dungeon. The angel stops short when he sees Dean, and an astonished smile flashes across his face. It only lasts for a fraction of a second though. Dean watches as Cas takes in the rest of the scene, staring at Sam’s body, the devil’s trap, the fragments of broken syringe lying in a pool of congealing blood.

“Oh, Dean,” the angel says, his face falling into lines of horrified grief.

“He saved me, Cas,” Dean whispers. “He shouldn’t have, but he did.”

Castiel walks over to crouch beside Dean. He rests a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder, his head bowed with sorrow. When he looks up at Dean, his eyes are gleaming with tears, but his expression is awed.

“It’s not just you he saved, Dean,” he says quietly. “The gates of hell are closed. I felt it earlier and didn’t understand, but now I do. It’s over, my friend. Not a single demon walks the earth.”

His tears have dried by this point, but fresh ones begin to fall as Dean realizes the magnitude of what has happened.

“You saved the world, Sammy,” he whispers into his brother’s ear. “I guess once just wasn’t enough for you, huh?”

He is proud, so proud, and though he knows that he will miss his brother every day for the rest of his life, he cannot bring himself to wish that Sam had not done this. He knows that it is what his brother wanted, knows that Sam deserves this kind of legacy.

Castiel lets him cry without offering empty words of comfort, but he stays by Dean’s side, and the hunter is grateful for his presence. It takes a long time, but eventually Dean’s tears stop again, and he looks up at his friend.

“I want to bury him,” he says.

He knows that Sam’s spirit cannot be put to rest until heaven is reopened, so a typical salt and burn would be pointless. He also knows that Sam always liked the idea of a traditional burial. It is what he gave Dean all those years ago.

“Where?” Castiel asks simply.

Dean thinks about it for a moment. Sam would have wanted to be with family, and they only have one family member buried in the ground. The rest are lost to ash and hellfire.

“The Men of Letters have a cemetery not far from here,” he tells Cas. “Our grandfather is buried there. I think…I think that’s where Sam would want to be.”

Castiel nods, and gently lifts Sam’s body from Dean’s arms. The hunter wants to protest, but his body is trembling from more than just grief, and he knows that he is too weak from his ordeal to carry his brother. So he stands and follows the angel to the garage, making a detour to grab a clean shirt. When they reach the impala, Cas lays Sam in the backseat. His eyes are closed and his hands are resting on his chest, and he looks so much like he is just sleeping that Dean has to look away, the lump in his throat suffocating him.

“Would you like me to drive, Dean?” Castiel offers, and though it takes a monumental effort, Dean manages to bark out a laugh.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let you get behind the wheel of my baby,” he tells his friend.

Cas rolls his eyes and climbs into the passenger seat. The drive is somber and silent. Dean knows that there are many things to address, but taking care of Sam takes precedent, like always.

The cemetery is locked for the night when they arrive, but that has never stopped Dean. He picks the lock with ease and gets two shovels from the trunk while Cas carries Sam into the field of tombstones and lays him on the grass in front of the simple wooden cross that marks Henry Winchester’s grave. They start digging, and the hole is almost complete before Dean realizes what he has forgotten.

“We don’t have a casket,” he says.

Castiel looks thoughtfully around at the walls of the hole that they have dug.

“I have an idea,” he says, boosting himself out.

He reaches a hand down to help Dean to the surface as well, and soon they are both peering into the grave. Kneeling, Castiel stretches out a hand, and Dean’s eyes widen as he watches the roots that line the sides of the hole begin to grow. The tendrils of wood weave themselves into an open box, and Dean knows by looking at it that it is the perfect size for Sam.

“He should have a living casket,” Castiel says, sounding tired but satisfied with his work.

Dean does not know what to say, and does not think that he could get the words out even if he did, so he settles for clapping a hand on the angel’s shoulder before going to his brother’s side. Dean gathers Sam into his arms one last time, holding him close before lifting him up to carry him to his grave. It is not easy to lower Sam into the casket, for any number of reasons, but Cas helps him, and soon Sam is resting in his living nest of roots.

Dean wishes that he has something to give his brother, some token to bury him with. Theirs was a life that did not center around material possessions though, and he can think of nothing meaningful. Nothing that he still has, anyway. Seeming to sense his intent, Cas shrugs out of his trench coat and tucks it around Sam’s body like a blanket. He looks up at Dean for confirmation that this is okay, and the hunter can only nod.

“Would you like to say something?” the angel asks as they stand side by side, gazing down into the grave.

Dean shakes his head.

“He already knows,” he says with quiet confidence. “But you can say something, if you want.”

Castiel nods, and clears his throat.

“Sam…” he says softly, trailing off and shaking his head. “Sam, when I first met you, I saw you as little more than the boy with the demon blood, the troublesome younger brother of my charge. I used to think myself above you, but I know now that nothing could have been further from the truth.”

He pauses again and sighs, and suddenly Dean feels a hand slipping into his own. He glances over at Cas in surprise, but the angel is still staring down at Sam. The tears gathering in the corners of his eyes tell Dean that his friend is in need of support, so he says nothing, just returning the pressure that Cas is exerting on his hand. He finds that it helps him as well.

“You taught me that everyone is worth saving, and that it is possible to overcome even the most seemingly insurmountable of challenges,” he continues eventually. “Your strength and selflessness never ceased to amaze me, and your capacity for forgiveness…”

Castiel has to stop again, and Dean squeezes his hand, fighting tears of his own. He knows all about that forgiveness, the blessing that it was.

“You put me to shame,” Cas says when he can speak. “You were the best of humanity, Sam, and I will forever be grateful that I got the chance to call you a friend. So rest now, my friend, and know that you have earned it.”

He looks over at Dean, who nods through the tears that he can no longer hold back. The angel extends his hand again, and a lid begins to weave itself over Sam’s body. His head is last to be covered, and Dean takes a small measure of comfort in the peaceful expression on his brother’s face before it vanishes beneath the roots.

Tossing the first shovel of dirt into Sam’s grave is harder than Dean would have thought possible. The second is no easier. Eventually though, he and Cas fill the hole, and the angel coaxes a carpet of grass from the dirt, until Sam’s grave blends seamlessly into the earth around it.

Dean glances at the cross that acts as his grandfather’s headstone. He knows that Sam deserves something similar, but he dreads making another one. Henry’s was hard enough, and Dean had only known him for two days. Cas saves him again though. The angel places a hand on the ground at the head of Sam’s grave, and a seedling shoots up between his fingers. The tiny plant quickly grows into a sturdy sapling that twists itself into another cross. Dean watches as words appear in the soft bark, and he leans closer to read them.

**Samuel Winchester**   
**1983 – 2014**   
**A hero in every sense of the word**

“It’s perfect, Cas,” Dean chokes out when the angel glances at him for approval.

“It’s still not as much as he deserves,” Castiel says, standing.

“No, but it’s what he would want,” Dean tell him.

Cas gives him a sad smile. Dean cannot meet his gaze, knowing that it will undo every scrap of composure he has left.

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” Cas says in understanding.

He touches Dean’s shoulder reassuringly before walking away, leaving Dean to face this final goodbye with his brother. The hunter stares at Sam’s new grave marker, side by side with Henry’s.

“They’re proud of you, Sammy,” Dean tells his brother. “Henry, Mom, Dad, Bobby…wherever they are, they’re proud. And so am I.”

Dean is just about out of tears at this point, but he knows that he still will not be able to get through a longer speech. So he just kneels in the grass over Sam’s final resting place, placing a palm in the dirt.

“Goodbye, little brother,” he says, head bowed. “Thank you.”

Knowing that he cannot stay here forever, Dean stands and strides out of the quiet little graveyard, the rosy glow of dawn lighting his path.


End file.
